This
is a work of fiction. All the characters
and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are
used fictitiously.

The low mound at Risgan’s feet was anything but ordinary to his
trained eye. Underneath it had the look of treasure. It is said that
grave-robbing was bad for the soul, likely to incur the wrath of the
spirits. But Risgan was not of this belief, nor an entertainer of
superstition; ’twas bad for business. Without hesitation, he swung
his pickaxe hard on the packed earth. His trim leather hunting
breeches creaked with the effort. Standing atop his pile made him
seem taller than usual in his low black boots. His square chin,
brawny arms and untroubled stance had a queer way of looking quixotic
in this deserted quarter with only fallen, moss-covered columns to
his left and a collapsed lichen-ridden domed prayer hall to his
right. The air, sticky and sweltering, was laced with a soft
melancholy, tinged with antiquity and moulder. Flung to a side in the
dirt were scalpel, scoop, wire brush, bodkin, bone horn: certain
accoutrements of his profession, along with his diamond scratcher for
measuring gem hardness, and a polished truncheon of gibbeth femur
useful for surprising bandits, whom he encountered often in his
trade.